Walking
by opheliarose
Summary: A re-work of the bar scene, with a little added on to the end. Curt's POV


[blah, blah, I don't own Curt or Arthur or Brian or Tommy. My Curt!muse is mine though, so back off ;)]

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Curt sat alone at a table at the back of the bar, nursing a bottle of beer and smoking his way through a pack of Marlboros. A crumpled concert ticket lay on the table next to the cigarettes, and every few minutes he glanced at it disdainfully.

Tommy Stone. What a fucking joke.

For years, he'd had no contact with 'Tommy,' nor had he wanted to. All the love he'd had for Brian had been lost the day he'd poured out his soul onstage and had received nothing in return. It had turned into a bitter anger that had eventually faded into weary acceptance. The man Curt had loved was no more. Now he was just a fucking puppet, a pawn of the government dressed in clown's makeup.

For someone who'd always claimed that image was everything, Brian had certainly destroyed his.

The concert had been pure hell--over the top and gaudy were too mild of words to describe the Tommy Stone experience. The man was cheesy and his fans were clearly stupid, Curt reflected. Taking that ticket from Tommy's goons had probably been the dumbest thing he'd done in a while. But it had been the message delivered with the ticket that had convinced him to go. One goon had placed the ticket on his desk after the phone call, while the other had said with a sneer, "Mr. Stone would be so pleased if you would attend his performance." Curt didn't back down from a challenge, and so he'd found himself sitting through the horrible show, wondering where the hell Brian Slade had gone, and if he'd ever really existed in the first place.

He was interrupted from his thoughts by a voice, and it would have been welcome had the person not said what they did.

"You're Curt Wild."

He held his cigarette to his mouth and looked up toward the voice, and saw a man standing a few feet away. He was tall, with dark, shaggy hair and probing eyes. Curt rested his arm on the table and met the man's gaze. "Yeah, who the hell are you?" he asked, his voice rough with smoke and use.

The man lifted his arm, then dropped it. "I'm a journalist, from the _Herald_," he said.

Curt turned away and took a drag off of his cigarette. The man lifted his bottle of beer and motioned at the ticket on the table. "You were at the concert?" Curt said nothing, hoping the guy would get the idea and leave him the hell alone, but he kept on talking. "It's just funny, cause, uh, I was trying to contact you actually," he said, running a hand through his hair. "About a story I was doin' about an old friend of yours." Another drag, still ignoring the man as he rambled on.

"Brian Slade."

That got Curt's attention. He looked up, his hand paused over his ashtray as he waited for the guy to continue.

"I was tryin' to find out what actually happened to him."

"Look--" Curt interrupted, but the man went on.

"I mean, before he became--"

Curt held his breath as the man paused, and then he watched as a twisted little smile crossed his face as he finished, "--such a mystery."

He knows_,_ Curt thought, willing himself to stay cool. Jesus Christ, he fucking _knows._ He gave a false laugh and said, "Look man, I don't know who you've been talking to or what you're after here, but--"

"What?" the man said. He pulled over a chair as Curt stubbed out his cigarette. "What?"

Curt exhaled, then turned to the man. "Listen. A real artist creates beautiful things and puts nothing of his own life into them, okay?"

The man stared at him seriously. "Is that what you did?" he asked.

"No," Curt said. He thought for a moment, then went with his gut. This guy might be a reporter, but he didn't seem inclined to make this discussion tomorrow's headline. "We set out to change the world." He glanced away and wet his lips with his tongue, smiling slightly as he remembered. "Ended up just changing ourselves."

The man smiled softly. "What's wrong with that?" he asked, his eyes on Curt's face.

Curt stared at him and shook his head. "Nothing," he said, then inclined his head past the man. "If you don't look at the world." The man followed his gaze. Curt felt as though everyone in the bar was watching him, right down to that piece of shit's poster on the wall, glowering over everyone with that mocking smile. "Well, I guess in the end he got what he wanted," he said, and Curt gave the man a pointed look when their eyes met as he stood up and pulled on his jacket.

"That's quite a pin you've got there," the man said, eyes focused on the green pin on the collar of Curt's jacket.

"Oh, yeah," Curt said, glancing down at it.

"Is it old?"

Curt nodded and smiled--a real smile, for the first time in a while. "Possibly," he said. "Belonged to Oscar Wilde." He looked at it again, pulling it off of his collar. "Or so I was told by the person who gave it to me." He shifted, looking down at the pin in his hands, his hair spilling into his eyes. "Friend of mine…who kinda disappeared some years back." He looked up, shaking the hair out of his face, and met the man's eyes, smiling again as he remembered. "I forget where we were, we were on a trip, but he said to me, 'Curt, a man's life is his image.'" He could recall, as if it were yesterday, he and Brian standing on the beach, Brian placing the pin on Curt's shirt, speaking to him so seriously, so lovingly…

Then the image in his mind changed, and he saw a young man. A boy, really, with long brown hair, no shirt, wearing a pair of trousers, lying on a mattress. His hands were on his forehead, and he was laughing at Curt. Then he remembered himself jumping onto that mattress, onto that boy, pinning him down and tickling him…the laughter, the complete fucking silliness of the situation…

Curt glanced at the man sitting in the chair in front of him. Their eyes met, and it clicked. This was the boy from the rooftop, the boy from the night of Death of Glitter. He wondered how he hadn't noticed it before…

He shook himself mentally and held the pin out to him. "Here, why don't you hang onto it."

"Me?" The man's hand shook as he took the pin.

"Sure, why not? I've had it too long anyway," Curt replied, watching the man. "Go ahead." The man finally looked up, and Curt grinned and said, "For your image."

Curt could hear coins dropping into a jukebox in the other room of the bar as the man looked down at the pin he held. "Really. I couldn't." He held the pin out to Curt. "But thanks." Their fingers brushed as he handed Curt the pin, and the man held his gaze as he stepped back.

Then they both turned abruptly to stare at the jukebox as 2HB began to play. Curt felt a chill run through his body--always did whenever he happened to hear Brian's music. They watched the gaggle of Tommy Stone fans gather around the jukebox, gushing over the song, and Curt wished that he could scream at them, tell them that their fucking pure idol was that same washed up bisexual glam rocker, and how the fuck did they like that?

Instead, he slipped the pin into the man's bottle while his gaze was still averted, then moved away from the table. "Anyway…"

"Yeah," the man said, glancing up at Curt.

Curt had no idea what to say. What _could_ he possibly say--"so, how have you been since we fucked up on that rooftop ten years ago, kid?" No, that wouldn't be appropriate, even for him, so he settled with, "Um, see you around."

"Cheers," the man said with a little nod.

Curt smiled, then bit his lip, words on the tip of his tongue. But they wouldn't come, and so he sighed and turned to the doorway, walking out into the cool night air.

He walked a few feet from the door, finally stopping and leaning against the brick wall, tipping his head back to look at the stars. He reached trembling hands into his pocket for his cigarettes, pulling one out and placing it between his lips before searching for his lighter. He found it in a different pocket and held it to the cigarette, watching the flame for a moment before putting it away. He took a deep drag and studied the night sky, willing the shaking to stop. It was fucking ridiculous, really…

He'd _never_ forgotten that kid. Why the memory stuck with him when he couldn't even remember his name, he couldn't say. Maybe it was because of the whole night itself--Death of Glitter, the last hurrah for glam rock. Maybe it was because he couldn't have Brian any longer, and he'd wanted somebody, anybody. Maybe...

Maybe it had been the look in the kid's eyes as he walked towards him on that roof. A little stoned, yeah, but the adoration had been real. Curt had been used to being lusted after, used to people wanting him because he was supposedly such a good fuck, but this kid had seemed to be in awe of him. And at that time in his life, Curt had desperately been in need of...reassurance, comfort, whatever the hell it could've been called. The kid...he'd been an innocent. Curt was sure he'd been his first, in all the ways that counted. He'd regretted it over the years--the kid certainly could have done better. Curt remembered that he'd almost backed out at one point, but then the boy had touched him, his fingers hesitant and warm, and that had done him in.

Curt tried not to think of it often, because that night held some of the best and worst memories of his lifetime. But every now and again, when he lay alone in his bed at night, he couldn't help but remember the softness of the boy's skin as he'd pulled off his shirt; the roughness of his blue powdered hair as Curt had wound his fingers into it; his soft gasps as Curt had kissed him, touched him. He remembered he'd had to fuck him slowly at first, afraid of hurting him, afraid of scaring him off with too much at once. But the boy had been willing, oh, so willing, and Curt had found himself lost in his eagerness, in his wonder, in his delight at the experience. They'd stayed the night on that rooftop, sleeping on an old, dirty mattress--who knew why it was there, who'd put it there, what it had been used for before. Neither of them had cared. It had been, Curt had realized through the years, a night of learning for the both of them. For the boy, an introduction into a new world. For Curt, a realization that he had to finally take control of his life. He couldn't hide behind drugs, he couldn't fade into Brian's shadow, he couldn't pass himself off as the wild rocker anymore. He was none of those things. 

Finding himself had taken years of hard work and soul searching. He was proud of what he'd accomplished since that night. People never called him "Brian Slade's ex-lover" anymore. Now he was just Curt Wild, a man with a guitar, a man who created beautiful things and put _all_ of himself into it. And he'd be damned if he'd let any fucking ghosts--_any_ ghosts--take that away from him. For once he respected himself. He wasn't giving that up without a fight.

Curt shifted away from the wall as he heard the door to the bar opening. He tossed his cigarette onto the ground and began walking away. He felt eyes on his back, but he didn't turn.

He just kept walking.


End file.
